Archive of Our Own

Three, consecutive knocks on the Sanctum’s door are what pulls Stephen from his otherwise relaxing Sunday afternoon. For once, he had gotten a moment to unwind and read one of the many non-sorcerer books lying unread on the bookshelf, absentmindedly playing with a blue butterfly that flutters around his fingertips. He resists the urge to groan and simply stands, the Cloak of Levitation coming to rest on his shoulders and both making their way to the door despite his better judgement. By the time he opens it, he realizes he shouldn't have bothered.

“Long time no see, Houdini.” Stephen immediately slams the door. “Is this how you treat all your houseguests?!” Tony shouts through the now-shut door. He thought for sure he'd at least get more than a sentence in. Maybe he shouldn't have led with “Houdini.”

“‘Guest’ implies you're welcome. Which you aren't,” Stephen counters in a bored tone, ready to walk away. Tony sighs and runs a hand through his hair as he takes off his sunglasses.

“C’mon, give me five minutes. It’s important…” The muffled voice comes across as genuine, but Stephen waits. “…Ish” Tony tags on at the end. Stephen rolls his eyes, but acquiesces nonetheless. He opens the door, maintaining his bemusement.

“What.”

“Y’know, it’s hard to take you seriously with the…” Tony smirks and points to the butterfly flying near Stephen’s head. The sorcerer’s expression doesn't falter as he goes to shut the door again. “Wait!” Tony sticks his foot between the door and the frame, catching it before it closes. “These are J.M. Weston, whole-cut leather Oxford shoes,” he nods to his squished dress shoe in the door, “which should show you how serious I am. Just…five minutes.” The two hold unwavering, intense eye contact…before Stephen begrudgingly relents.

“Three.” With that, the door swings open and Tony saunters in before it can hit him in the face in case Stephen changes his mind.

“Nice place ya got, Doc.” Tony shoves his hands into his pockets and casually looks around the ornate, spacious room.

“Two minutes and forty-eight seconds,” Stephen reminds. Holding his hands up in mock surrender, the usual ego coming off him in waves, Tony gets down to business.

“No need to get your magic tighty whities in a twist,” he easily quips and continues before Stephen’s glare can intensify. “You probably guessed it wasn't Avengers related, so I’ll get right to it. There's an SI Gala going on this Wednesday, and for the last month and a half I’ve been dreading it. The usual boring business shenanigans. Then, a brilliant idea pops into my head, pretty usual occurrence for me I know-”

“Is there a point to this?”

“But,” Tony continues as if he wasn't interrupted, “who am I to decline my own genius. So,” he turns lazily on his heel to suddenly face the doctor with a confident smile, “be my date.” Silence fills the space between them. Stephen’s bored, disinterested mind comes to a screeching halt as he tries to absorb what he just heard. It’s such an unexpected overload that all he can say is,

“Is this some kind of joke?” His flabbergasted tone makes Tony smirk, gaining some sort of pride in throwing the stoic sorcerer off balance.

“Nope.” Tony circles Stephen, not menacingly and in no way intimidating, simply enjoying the man’s shock. “I mean it. I want you to accompany me.” Stephen almost opens a portal beneath the egotistical bastard’s feet. There’s no way Tony Stark, playboy, womanizer, is asking him to a gala of all things. Sure, Tony had flirted at him on occasion, but he never thought the idiot was serious. Of all the questions racing through his mind, he can only settle on one.

“Why?” The question hangs between them as Tony comes to a stop and rocks on his heels.

“Because it’s gonna be a pain in the ass and I don't want to be surrounded by a bunch of pompous assholes without my own pompous asshole,” he explains, but is met with narrowed eyes.

“Is that supposed to convince me.” Stephen’s annoyance makes the question come out like a statement. “What makes you think I want to spend my evening with an overconfident douchebag?” The ruthless banter only serves to entertain Tony more. It must be a superhero thing, but it fuels his antics further.

“Nothing, but I want to spend it with you.” His tone takes a more sincere turn, smirk gone and eyes level with Stephen’s. The doctor doesn't show it this time, but he's thrown for a loop all over again. Tony wants to spend time with him? Wants to have him at some prestigious, high-class business party?

“…Why?” This question contains something more than the miffed attitude from before. There's a twinge of self-deprecation to it, laced with doubt and hesitation. He quickly reigns it in before he gives away too much. Tony shrugs nonchalantly before elaborating.

“We can make fun of the uptight, corporate types, eat mini sandwiches, what's not to love?” Stephen scoffs, crossing his arms. He just wants someone to complain at for who-knows-how-long?

“How do you know I could handle that much condensed Stark for so long?” he challenges, vaguely realizing they've gone over his own time limit.

“Then let me prove it to you,” Tony replies as if he's already mapped out the entire conversation in his head. “How about this,” he takes a step closer, “if you can spend a day with me and not want to punch me by the end of it, I think that's a halfway decent start.” Stephen holds his ground…until a rare, genuine smile graces the genius’s face. “I really don't wanna go at this alone, and a friend being there would make it bearable. Please.” Warm, brown eyes stare at him expectantly, and Stephen knows it’s over before he's even opened his mouth.

“Fine,” he relents, albeit in exasperation. “On one condition: you're buying since you flaunt your billionaire title at any available opportunity.” Giving Tony a taste of his own medicine is the most satisfying thing that’s happened all day. The man snorts in amusement, his smile replaced with his signature smirk.

“As long as you look less like a Hogwarts professor, it’s a deal,” Tony shoots right back without so much as blinking, glancing to the Cloak. He slips his designer sunglasses back and turns towards the entrance as he clicks his tongue. “How’s tomorrow? I’ll plan everything and pick you up around, say, noon?” Stephen raises a single eyebrow, yet accepts his fate.

“Noon,” he capitulates for what feels like the millionth time. It’s not usually like him to simply give in, but he has to admit his curiosity has been piqued.

Nonetheless, Tony shuts the door behind him and Stephen’s left with nothing but a vague promise of a filled schedule tomorrow. Not that he had much else to do. He sighs as the Cloak playfully taps his cheek to get his attention.

“Stop it. It’s not anything more than…” He trails off, unsure of what to even call it. A get together? Peace offering? Date? “Lunch,” he settles on. Shrugging the Cloak off, he goes to sit back in his chair, this time not picking up the book. He lounges, his trembling hands adorned with scars tracing the collar of his shirt. Honestly, with dedicating his life to guarding the Time Stone, he doesn't have many…everyday plans. Nothing typical like grabbing a cup of coffee with friends or going to the movies for leisurely purposes. Well, he didn't do that before the accident, either. Might as well let it play out, he supposes.

For the rest of the evening, Stephen makes dinner and lounges about, replaying the conversation over in his mind as he does so. There has to be an ulterior motive, something driving Tony to ask him of all people. They obviously can't stand each other, and it looks like tomorrow will be just as much a waste of time. To think he willingly agreed to this. With a soft sigh, he relinquishes himself to a dissatisfied sleep, wondering what Tony could possibly have up his sleeve for tomorrow.

However, it seems like he didn't think this through enough. They're in the middle of fall, which means no snow yet crisp, sometimes windy, weather. Frigid air will bite at his scarred skin without mercy and the pins embedded in his fingers will chill him quite literally to the bone. In other words, he's going to have to look like Ralphie from A Christmas Story to escape the cold.

He slips into a cream button-up before choosing some black jeans, adding a navy blue sweater for extra layers. Then, he shrugs on a matching navy blue coat that reaches down to his knees. The entire outfit is topped off with black, suede shoes, a mustard yellow infinity scarf hanging loosely around his neck, and merino wool gloves. Cold days are never good for his hands or his arms, phantom limb sensations rendering him achy and cantankerous.

His mild irritation is interrupted by another rap at the door, just as annoyingly cadenced as yesterday. Only barely refraining from rolling his eyes, he walks to the door. Per Tony’s request, Stephen is dressed in casual clothes, but what the doctor didn't expect was Tony to be sporting his own. The genius is wearing a black leather jacket with a burgundy v-neck underneath, sunglasses clipped to the collar, jeans, and lace up ankle boots. Meanwhile, Tony’s eyes gaze over Stephen’s hair, the whitewalls barely showing and a tuft of bangs peeking through over his forehead. He lets out a low whistle, causing Stephen to lift an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Looks like Gandalf does clean up nicely,” Tony lightheartedly jabs, and this time Stephen does roll his eyes before closing the door behind him. When he turns around, he finally notices the fact that it’s just Tony. No Rolls-Royce or Audi, not even a convertible.

“I'm going to ignore that since I'm evidently the only adult here and instead ask where you've hidden our ride.” His monotonous tone does nothing to deter Tony as the man hops off the steps and onto the sidewalk, gesturing ahead of him.

“Thought it’d be a nice stroll to lunch,” Tony effortlessly provides as Stephen reluctantly joins him.

“Since when do you pass up an opportunity to show off?” Stephen questions as he sets a brisk pace for their supposed stroll. In hindsight, Tony should’ve expected the indifference and catches up to match the pace.

“This is about us, not the tabloids,” he answers as he falls into the other’s stride. Stephen glances to him without turning his head, slightly skeptical about the clarification, then looks forward again.

“If we’re doing this according to your flawed plan of proving I can tolerate you for a day, you're off to a mediocre start,” he points out in a flat tone, even though there's a sliver of surprise at Tony not being flashy. It’s either genuinity or an elaborate ruse to try and get him to go to the gala. He wouldn't put it past Stark to come up with an over-the-top scheme hidden behind a façade of chivalry.

“C’mon, you haven't even given me a chance,” Tony mock whines with a smirk. “Don't you wanna know where we’re going? What we’re doing? Hm?” The smug aura comes off him in waves, practically taunting Stephen’s aloof one.

“No. Knowing you, you wouldn't tell me regardless.” Stephen makes a good point, and he knows he's right when Tony’s smirk widens.

“See, we already know so much about each other.” Tony lightly bumps his shoulder with his own and Stephen lets out a disgruntled huff in acknowledgement. “Trust me, you’ll love it.” The assurance does little to pique the sorcerer’s interest.

“Doubtful.” At the blatant denial, Tony doesn't even falter. If anything, he takes it as a challenge, which tends to be his default response anyways. The silence is awkward at first, Stephen used to Tony’s nonstop, irritating snark in the heat of battles and, well, everything. Instead, the pair are encompassed by the ambient sounds of New York: the dull roar of street chatter, non-stop honking of horns, crisp wind blowing past them. Stephen traps his already aching, stiff hands into his pockets.

However, Tony stops them in front of a…bodega? Of all the places —fancy restaurants, five star cuisine, impossible-to-book reservations— Stephen was expecting, it certainly wasn't a corner store.

“What? Impressed? Did I shock you speechless for once?” Tony snaps him out of it, resting on the glass door. “My favorite sandwich place, but don't tell Peter. Last time I said it, he made a fifty slide PowerPoint presentation on how Mr. Delmar’s has the best sandwiches. Made me sit through the whole damn thing.” Contrary to his words, a fond smile graces his features with smile lines surrounding his eyes.

“Impressed? No. Shocked? Yes.” Stephen’s gaze follows Tony as the man opens the door for him, causing a small, brass bell to ring at their entry. He wraps his coat around him tighter, then steps in with Tony close behind. The store is fairly unremarkable; it looks like a typical bodega deli with chips and drinks lining the walls and a selection of breads as well as meats behind the counter. What makes the bodega interesting is the man that greets them.

“Ey! Antonio!” a man with a thick, Brooklyn accent greets, arms extended out at his sides in welcome. Stephen observes as Tony mirrors the action like an old friend. Well, given the odd nickname, maybe he is.

“Ronnie! How’s the city treating you? Roberto in today?” he inquires, walking up to the counter with his hands behind his back.

“Ah he’s in the back with Candace,” Ronnie informs with a dismissive wave of his hand before leaning on the counter and glancing to Stephen. The doctor isn't sure where this is going, but he has a bad feeling. “E chi hai portato con te?” And bad feeling confirmed. He turns his head slightly to shoot Tony a bemused look, knowing that this is the trick up his sleeve.

“This is my good friend-”

“Acquaintance.”

“Doctor Stephen Strange,” Tony finishes despite the interruption, then raises a mischievious eyebrow. “Penso che abbia un debole per me.” Stephen rolls his eyes at the playful, lilting tone alone. The deli owner across from them laughs as he slings a rag over his shoulder.

“Non da dove mi trovo io, Principino.” His chortle only becomes more boisterous, and Tony just hopes that Stephen isn't able to pick up on the blatant nickname. “What can I get for you two?” Finally, past all the banter and pointless formalities, Stephen is given his cue and looks up at the menu, only to have his nose crinkle in confusion. Then, it slots into place and he slowly turns his newly formed glare on Tony.

“Really,” he questions, but his tone is so void of emotion that it feels more like exasperated defeat. Tony’s proud smile merely brightens upon being caught, and Stephen knows he won't be able to win this.

So instead, he plays along and turns back to the board with a sigh. In a monotonous voice he reads out,

“I’ll take one ‘Dr. Strangewich.’” Sun rays are practically beaming from Tony while Stephen looks as if a storm cloud will miraculously appear above his head.

“You indulge him too much,” Ronnie comments as he maintains his upbeat attitude, preparing a sheet of paper and the bread.

“I'm gravely starting to realize my error,” Stephen divulges as he smooths out his collar.

“Takes one to know one,” the man reveals with a snort, “otherwise I wouldn't’ve let him come in here after hours ‘n draw that thing up there.” He points to the chalkboard with the breadknife in hand, pulling Stephen’s gaze once again to the menu. The title “Dr. Strangewich,” apparently in Tony’s handwriting, is written in both red and yellow with orange sparks drawn passionately around it and a green Eye of Agamotto beneath it. In all honesty, it looks like a 3rd grader drew it, especially with the way it’s slightly slanted, but something about the gesture is…endearing. There's only one problem.

“All that effort and it doesn't say what's on it.” Stephen glances to Tony without moving his head, while the genius just shrugs a shoulder.

“Maybe I like surprises.”

“I don't.” Despite Stephen’s immediate retort, Tony switches back to addressing the man in Italian.

“Pollo fritto, mozzarella, pesto e pomodori a fette. E, uh, tostare il pane, per favore.” The Italian falls effortlessly off his tongue, Ronnie immediately getting to work placing the bread in the oven and pulling out fresh ingredients. Stephen hears a few words he recognizes, which gives him the mental image of a chicken and mozzarella cheese sandwich that he wouldn't be too terribly against. Not that he’d let Tony have the satisfaction of knowing that.

“You are aware what the definition of a ‘strangewich’ is, right?” Stephen double checks even though he doesn't have much faith to begin with. The look Tony gives him over his shoulder tells him the man has planned way too much of this out. With a moue of disdain to rival any glare, Stephen surrenders to his fate and watches the human disaster unfold.

“Bunch of things that shouldn't work together but do?” Tony offers with a smug satisfaction to his tone, regardless of the questioning inflection. Something about it tells Stephen that the definition is also aimed at him. Lovely. “Do you really wanna know what's in it?” The challenge effortlessly leaves Tony’s tongue, but Stephen isn't falling into that trap.

“I’ll defer to your good judgement.” The sarcasm all but drips from his words.

It’s not long before the sandwiches are made and wrapped up for them, Tony’s annoyingly being an Iron Man themed sandwich called “The Muffuletta Hero” with cherry tomatoes, salami, pepperoni, sopressata, and cheese. They're rung up by a woman at the register, who seems to have come more for the conversation than anything else. One who apparently also speaks Italian.

“Cosa stai facendo portando un dolce da?” she asks as she presses button after button. The lilt in her tone suggests teasing, but the way Tony bristles suggests otherwise.

“Sì, è il mio appuntamento,” Tony emphasizes with a tight-lipped smile as he takes his receipt. Stephen raises a single eyebrow in mild interest, but doesn't comment on it.

“Dispiace, dispiace.” Her response comes out slightly apologetic, but more entertained than anything else. Their sandwiches are kindly handed to them before Tony thanks them and Stephen is led out of the bodega. As they pass through the doorway, far enough to where the others can't hear, Stephen decides to get some well-awaited revenge.

“Date, huh?” he clarifies with amusement, the first emotion that hasn't been either annoyance or boredom since he left the Sanctum. Tony just about chokes and wastes no time in whipping around to face him with a comically shocked expression, ready to spew either excuses or questions. Luckily for Stephen, he's able to take advantage of the genius’s rare silence. “Non sei l'unico a parlare italiano.” And oh how that revenge is sweet. Watching the look of realization wash over Tony is as priceless as it gets and Stephen savors every moment of it.

You aren't the only one who speaks Italian.

“Hey, that’s my parlor trick, David Copperfield.” Stephen snorts at the obvious deflection to keep Tony’s ego from bruising, but he isn't here to psychoanalyze. Too much. “You already have enough magic tricks up your sleeve. Leave some for the rest of us.” Despite getting a taste of his own medicine, Tony refuses to admit getting beat at his own game.

They sit at some of the cast iron tables around the corner instead of trying to walk and eat through the bustling streets of Manhattan. As soon as Stephen takes a bite of his sandwich, he loathes to admit to himself that Tony’s shot in the dark was spot on. The sandwich is delicious despite the slightly odd concoction of ingredients.

“Better than a fancy smancy restaurant, hm?” Tony breaks through the silence. Well, as much of a silence as New York allows. “I thought the chalkboard was a nice touch, if you ask me. Very considerate on my part.” His ego practically has a neon sign pointing at it and Stephen doesn't even try to keep back his look of exasperation.

“A good deed doesn't mean anything if you brag about it. Try modesty,” Stephen fires back instead. However, Tony simply smirks as he rests his chin in his palm.

“How else will people know how great I am? I have to be my own biggest fan.” Holding his smirk a tad too long for Stephen’s comfort, he finally decides to lean back with his hands behind his head. “Besides, I should get some credit for bribing your partner in crime.” At that, Stephen’s eyebrows furrow.

“You bribed Wong to find out what sandwiches I like?” It’s beyond absurd, but Tony shrugs as if it’s a logical process. Stephen would laugh if it weren't so baffling, especially since this was only planned out in less than a day. A distant buzz sounds from Tony’s pocket, but the billionaire chooses to ignore it.

“Had to find out somehow, and all he wanted was VIP Beyoncé tickets. So, win-win.” He plays it off so casually that it takes a breath for Stephen to process. During the stunned lapse in conversation, another buzz goes off and Tony briefly glances down. It’s fleeting, and the man’s gaze is quick to resume eye contact.

“Beyoncé was always his weak spot,” Stephen calmly decides, taking another bite. Tony deems it a win, all things considered.

“Well, one success down, just wait ‘til you see the-” As if the comedic rule of threes strikes, a third buzz interrupts Tony…but this time it’s Stephen’s phone. The sorcerer’s eyebrows come together in a frown, but he doesn't make a move to pick the phone up. He doesn't usually get messages, if at all. Then again, he’s never away from the Sanctum long enough to warrant-

Bzz Bzz.

“Jesus Harold Christ on rubber-” Tony finally picks up his phone, out of frustration if nothing else, and stares at the screen in bewilderment. “What does that even mean?!” he questions, more to himself than anything else. Then, the genius lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Emergency?” Stephen double checks, but gets the shake of a head in response.

“Not even close.” Tony’s eyes flit up to Stephen’s. “Please don't go anywhere, I’ll be right back.” With that, the metal chair screeches behind him as he gets up and he jogs around the corner. When he's out of Stephen’s earshot, he looks over the messages again, just to make sure he isn't somehow hallucinating.

Spidey-Kid

Peter: hows the not date going Mr. Stark?

Peter: did you guys go to a bodega??

Peter: Mr. Stark???

Peter: we looked up funny pick up lines fir you

Peter: hey, my names microsoft, can I crash at your place tonight?

Peter: ned liked that one

Peter: or or or 

Peter: do you like mexican food? cause i want to wrap you in my arms and make you my BAE-RITTO

Peter: get it?

Peter: cause bae?

That’s what he thought he read and he's just as confused as before. With a look of pure confusion, he decides to call the kid before he bursts a vessel trying to figure it out.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter exclaims after the first ring. “What's happening?!”

“Did you use the lines?!” Ned’s voice comes stampeding through.

“Please tell me you didn't use the lines,” MJ counters flatly, hoping that Tony has some semblance of common sense.

“First of all,” Tony interjects after the bombardment of greetings, “what on Earth does ‘bae’ mean?” He then has to pull the phone away from his ear with how loud the gasps are.

“You don't know what bae means?!” Peter and Ned demand simultaneously, the sound crackling to accommodate their screeches.

“You're in for it now, Stark,” MJ admonishes with almost -pity. Almost.

“Okay, y'know what? Not important,” Tony gets them back on track. “Bud, your help brainstorming yesterday was great, but maybe while I'm on the date, I focus on it.” The suggestion seems to get through somewhat, but Peter’s enthusiasm gets the better of him.

“Oh, yeah! Totally! For sure! But you just have to use this one, I swear it’s perfect,” Peter assures. Tony runs a hand down his face, but ultimately gives in, because how could he ever say no to the kid?

“What is it?” He almost dreads asking it, but he figures it’s for the greater good. The “greater good” being Peter’s happiness, so he counts that as a win.

“If I were a transplant surgeon, I'd give you my heart.” The kid says it as if it’s the greatest joke in the world. “You get it? ‘Cause he's a doctor!” It’d be a shame, if it weren't for the fact that he makes it so adorable it should be illegal. Tony sighs, then holds up a finger to no one.

“Just this once,” he acquiesces sternly. Well, as stern as he can be with the kid.

“You're the best Mr. Stark!” Peter cheers as MJ mutters,

“Coward.”

“He’ll love it! I promise we won't bother you again, you got this, sir.” The warmth in Peter’s voice is enough to give Tony a slight boost of confidence. He can't help the small smile that adorns his cheeks.

“Thanks, kid. And drop the ‘sir’ already. I’ll see you at the lab,” he promises as always, then pockets his phone.

In the short time Tony is gone, Stephen’s phone has made its way onto the table and the man’s eyes follow Tony as he sits down.

“Business call?” Stephen inquires as he takes a sip of his drink. He silently observes as Tony clears his throat and sniffs nonchalantly.

“Nothing I couldn't handle,” the genius vaguely answers, followed by a bite of his sandwich. It doesn't take much for Stephen to notice the internal war all but plastered across Tony’s face. The creased brow, the lightly drumming fingers on the table, lips pressed together, the rare anxious demeanor, they're all things he wouldn't normally equate with Tony. Yet here he is, sitting in front of him looking like he's choosing between life and death. Finally, something must outweigh the other. Tony sighs and bites the bullet. “If I were a transplant surgeon-”

“I'd give you my heart,” Stephen finishes with a faint smirk. It’s not something he does often, but he’ll relish in the moment for once, especially when he gets to see Tony’s jaw drop.

“How’d-” Then, the realization sets in. “Peter?”

“Peter,” Stephen confirms with a chuckle. “He said it would help ‘catch you off guard’ if I could find one you hadn't used on someone before.” In a way, he can see how it was Peter’s attempt at getting Tony to drop any protective façade and get him to come out of his default “playboy” setting. With how Tony short-circuits just enough to look shocked, he might've succeeded.

“That kid’s too smart for his own good, the little shit,” Tony snorts, rubbing his forehead yet exuding fondness. Then he pauses, looking up at Stephen with his gaze narrowed in confusion. “Wait, why does Peter have your number?” Stephen’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly before he reigns his facial expression back in. He wasn't expecting to explain that today or, well, ever.

“Well, since he's your ward-”

“Not my ward.”

“I suppose I’ll tell you.” Stephen inspects him before continuing, noticing how invested Tony is when it comes to Peter. “A number of reasons. Advice, homework, magical adversaries, company.” Tony gives a short exhale through his nose, not quite a laugh but evidently amused.

“Sounds like he's just as much a handful for you as he is for me,” he relates, but holds no contempt or malice. Quite the opposite, actually. Stephen hums in agreement as he takes a sip of his drink.

“I should've prefaced that it all started because he kicked through one of the Sanctum windows.” That should've been Stephen’s first clue that the kid would be an experience and a half, but as much trouble as he brings he's twice as much of a good kid. Tony actually laughs at that, smile lines forming around his eyes.

“Yeah, join the club. I've had to replace at least three windows, a door, a set of fine china, and a private jet. You?” Tony casually queries as if it’s the most mundane, run-of-the-mill occurrences he encounters. On second thought, when it comes to Peter, Stephen’s aware that you kind of get used to it. The 1:00am emergency calls, last-minute-due projects, goofy meme texts, it’s all just a part of being in Peter’s life.

“A window, two artifacts, and Wong’s TV,” Stephen discloses. Tony winces in sympathy but the smile never leaves his face. It’s…natural, one that puts all the fakes to shame. Peter must mean more to Tony than Stephen previously anticipated, and he already thought they were close. It never seemed like a mere mentor obligation or Avengers requirement to train a youngling, but something more paternal.

“Do I dare ask about the TV incident?” Tony inquires with interlaced fingers, leaning in slightly. Setting down his drink, Stephen shakes his head to himself with a barely-there chuckle.

“Peter and Wong were playing Wii sports…” Tony’s smile starts to widen, showing his teeth. 

“That bodes well,” he remarks, but makes a motion to zip his lips when Stephen gives him a look.

“It was some kind of fitness test that tells you how old you are at the end. They were swinging these plastic controllers around and jumping on the couch. Wong-” Stephen’s caught off by a brief snicker at the memory. The disbelief on Wong’s face was beyond priceless. “It said Wong was sixty-two.” This time, Stephen can't hold back as both of them start laughing uncontrollably, making the table beneath their elbows rattle.

“God, what I would've paid to see his face,” Tony manages to gasp out between laughs. Even Stephen covers his mouth as his shoulders shake, trying to calm himself down enough to continue.

“Peter got so into it that when he was golfing, he sent the Wii remote flying through the TV. There were sparks and the music was glitching, it was a nightmare.” The stares they get when the laughing increases is beyond worth it. “He has to wear a safety strap at all times now, it’s the only way Wong lets him play.” Tony’s head tilts back, clutching his chest while he struggles to breathe. A particularly lighthearted giggle bubbles up, and Stephen doesn't understand why it makes him feel just as light.

“That kid brings danger-prone to a whole new level. I swear, he's given me more gray hairs than any of this hero shit.” Tony rubs his eyes and settles back into his seat. The air between them isn't as tense or awkward, falling into a more calming atmosphere. “It’s good that he has you and the Sanctum when I'm off doing the boring company stuff. I appreciate it.” Stephen’s face softens a scant, but it’s enough. The gratitude in Tony’s voice is there, something tender and undemanding that he isn't used to hearing from the genius. Yet there's also an underlying tone of insecurity. “I'm glad Peter has another responsible Avenger to look up to.” Ah. That's what it is.

“Are you sure? You're not responsible or tall,” Stephen teases, but there's no malice or irritability like earlier. Walls are down on both sides. Tony scoffs humorously, though before he can retort, Stephen continues. “He talks about you a lot, you know.” At that, Tony freezes. Something akin to reluctance mixed with curiosity flashes across his face. Nevertheless, he nonchalantly sniffs to try to cover it up.

“He does?” Even though Tony’s ego might be visible from space, he isn't immune to doubt. It’s not often shown, but the uncertainty in his voice is enough to give it away. Stephen notes it without commenting, opting to nod once instead.

“Things here and there,” he confirms before elaborating. “What he's been working on in the lab with you, what you brought him from the last business trip, the time you managed to burn macaroni on the stove.” Tony’s jaw instantly drops, his eyebrows shooting up as an incredulous look of betrayal takes over his face.

“After all we went through, he ratted me out?” he demands overdramatically, making Stephen smile amusedly. Tony throws his arms up and lets them drop at his sides. “He promised not to tell anyone, too. The gumption of that kid. The audacity. I swear, next time I see him, his lab privileges are revoked.” Based off Stephen’s crinkled forehead and the “ are you serious?” expression.

“We both know that won't happen.”

“No, but I can still threaten him with it,” Tony relents with an exaggerated sigh as he crumples up his empty sandwich wrapper. The act only serves to make Stephen roll his eyes, this time accompanied by a small smile. “Well, now that we've got the second best sandwiches in New York under our belt, ready for Act Two?” he asks once he stands and claps his hands together. Stephen stops amidst the folding of his own sandwich wrapper and turns to the genius perplexed.

“Act Two?” he echoes. It’s only roughly been an hour, but he still wasn't expecting to actually plan a full day of events, let alone a Shakespearean itinerary.

“Act Two,” Tony confirms without further explanation. “Ready to continue our stroll? We’re heading for Union Square Park.” As far as Stephen knows, Union Square Park is a pretty standard New York pavilion: graffiti, rundown benches, and too many people. Regardless, the enthusiastic aura exuding from Tony is enough to make Stephen go along with it.

“Well, aren't you meticulous?” Stephen jabs, standing to join him.

“Mr.,” Tony agrees proudly.

The walk is just as filled with banter, but they don't lapse into uncomfortable or awkward silence. However menial, the conversation is constant and ungrudging while they make their way through crowded crosswalks and busy streets.

When they reach the park, Stephen can't help the way his mouth parts slightly in awe. Stunning ginkgo biloba trees line the pathway, towering above them impressively in a way that a child would deem magical. The scene before him seems almost enchanting, and that’s coming from a sorcerer.

“Follow the yellow brick road, Dorothy,” Tony lightheartedly taunts, stepping out of the way to gesture down the walkway plentifully bestrewn with an uncountable amount of yellow, rounded leaves.

“What does that make you, Tin Man?” Stephen banters back, but takes a step forward nonetheless.

“The wonderful Wizard of Oz.” The genius raises his hands in a flourish as if to say “that’s me,” an eyebrow slightly lifted and a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The two walk down the path, leaves painted gold fluttering to the ground as sun shines through them. Soft chirping can be heard as the birds flit across the tops of the trees, shaking out more leaves as they go.

Tony can't keep his eyes from following the leaves that leisurely float down with the light breeze and land on Stephen’s hair akin to a halo. They settle over his shoulders and dust him in a gorgeous hue that reminds Tony magic is, indeed, real. Fate is another one of those funny occurrences without rhyme or reason, but does him the honor of bending the chaos of the universe to this moment in time. And he's never been so grateful for those small, simple leaves.

If Stephen were being honest, he has no idea a place like this even existed in New York. He has never taken the time to walk around the city, chalking it up to merely angry drivers and incessant noise like the concrete prison he thought it was. Now, he has this. There’s trees instead of buildings, birds’ songs as opposed to cars’ horns, meandering bystanders instead of those fleeing for their lives. As heroes, they have the world on their Atlas shoulders, but today it’s just them. No aliens plotting to destroy the planet, no androids trying to wipe out humanity, just…them. And it’s nice.

The street across from them is littered with high-rise apartments and popular name-brand stores, along with a spattering of cafes. At the center of the park is a circular, stone clearing with benches lining the outer edge and a broad tree in the middle. When they reach it, Tony sits on one of the benches and Stephen isn't far behind to do the same.

The wind blows harshly at them, but Stephen continues to take in the scene and engrave it into his memory. Autumn has always been one of his favorite times of the year, between the trees transitioning into warm colors and the excuse to drink nothing but hot cocoa for the next two months straight. The only downside, now, is the cold.

“You’ve been rubbing your hands a lot,” Tony points out, nodding towards Stephen as he wrings his gloves together. The doctor glances at his hands, the act of massaging the cold, aching digits subconscious at this point, and resists the sudden urge to shove them into his coat pockets.

“Metal pins and the cold don't exactly agree,” he answers shortly. And yet, Tony’s hands still lower to gently surround his clasped ones. Stephen is a second away from ripping them free when Tony starts to rub them back and forth, carefully warming them up. The action makes Stephen hesitate.

“Can't have you freezing to death, now can we?” Tony says as if he's justifying his movements. “That's Steve’s job.” He glances up at Stephen through his eyelashes before looking back down to their hands. There isn't the…pity or caution or discomfort that Stephen has come to expect when mentioning the titanium rods in his hands. There's only concentration across Tony’s features as he slowly works his way down each finger, tenderly easing the tensing muscles to relax while warming them at the same time. It’s too… gentle to associate with Tony, yet here they are. The light catches his eyes just right to reveal a sliver of liquid gold amongst the shade of the trees around them. The pink tinge to his cheeks from the cold-

Stephen clears his throat and looks away, but doesn't pull his hand away.

“What else did you have planned?” he inquires to pull attention away from what Tony’s doing. The genius hums, but downcasts his gaze to their hands.

“I was kinda just going to wing the rest of it. So, how about hot chocolate? Could help warm you up,” he proposes kindly. With a huff, his breath becoming steam in the frost-bound air, he admits defeat and nods.

The more time they spend under the trees that seem to be the only beauty left in New York, the more the afternoon chill ebbs slightly as the sun rises higher. They end up going to a coffee shop not too far from the park and, since the lunch rush has passed, the sidewalks are less crowded than earlier. It gives them more breathing room along with a comfortable atmosphere to talk in lower tones instead of shouting over the expected commotion. When they pick up the drinks, Tony gives him a heartwarming smile, so much so that he almost doesn't need the hot cocoa. The smile causes the thin, precise lines around his eyes to crinkle, ones that Stephen refuses to acknowledge more than he already has. Of course, he fails miserably.

“You've never ridden on the subway?” Stephen repeats, finding it hard to believe. Though, maybe he should find it so shocking considering Tony grew up with a personal chauffeur.

“I've never ridden public transportation,” Tony corrects. “What's your point? …What’s that face for?” Stephen keeps his gaze straight ahead and does his best to repress the smirk that’s treacherously taken over his face.

“My upcoming delight,” he vaguely divulges. However vague, it’s enough that Tony assumes he won't be able to say “never” for long. “It’s my turn to plot something.” And with that, Stephen changes their course to the underground.

On the way to the subway, however, Stephen suddenly halts in his tracks. Off to the side of the walkway, half covered in the shadows of an alley, is a beaten and discarded piano with a few vinyl records sitting atop it.

“You good?” Tony’s voice pulls him from his reminiscing as the man stops beside him. Still, Stephen maintains his stare amidst the bustling chaos of Manhattan.

“Yeah, just…” he looks over the rundown piano slightly obscured by surrounding trash. “I used to have a piano. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one.” His fingers twitch at the muscle memory of playing the keys, hours upon hours of symphonies after surgeries that never seemed to end. When he sold it to pay for more and more treatments on his hands…it was as if he lost a piece of his soul. It’s not like he would even be able to play it anyways, not with-

“Do you want to go over? You’d be first in line.” Tony bounces his eyebrows and Stephen snorts in response, yet dodges people to make his way to the alley nonetheless. As if predicting his actions, Tony follows in his steps until they reach the wooden, Steinhoven piano. Stephen runs his fingers over the uneven, scuffed wood that's splintering on the edges. The garnish that once gave its surface a polished sheen has begun to crack and chip. Ivory keys have tinted yellow from the elements, creating a patina. Tony, on the other hand, seems more focussed on what's resting atop the piano.

“Some old vinyls.” He picks up one of the large, black disks, all three of them missing their sleeves.

“I didn't know that was your kind of thing,” Stephen admits, eyeing both him and the records. At first, he thinks the hum he receives will be the only acknowledgement.

“Lots of time to yourself and you develop a kind of appreciation. Look,” Tony tilts the record so that the grooves reflect in the light, “Louder passages reflect differently. See that silvery shimmer? That's how you can tell.” He sets it down before picking up one of the others, examining it intensely. “And see here, the grooves are jagged and serrated, that's the forte passage in this one.” Stephen is surprised to hear the music terminology fall from Tony’s lips that only comes with practiced expertise. Then, the man picks up the last vinyl. “But soft passages look more black. The darkest area there,” he points to the smooth, dark crevices, “that's the pianissimo. The softest areas of the song.” Stephen merely stares at him, something dangerously close to awe in his eyes.

“How do you…” But Tony continues like the vinyls are an extension of himself.

“This one’s probably Strauss’s Alpine Symphony. Either that or Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring.” He sets it down and raises the other two in tandem. “This is Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony and this one is Janacek’s Sinfonietta.” Strangely, Stephen finds himself trusting Tony’s deductions verbatim. Instead of challenging him, he runs his hands across the piano keys. Some of them are lower than they should be, most likely flat and out of tune. If he were to play them, the keys would most likely stick after so little use and build-up of moisture.

“What are you gonna play?” Tony suddenly asks, making Stephen glance away from the keys.

“I'm not.” The curt, simple answer throws Tony for a loop.

“But you came all the way over to-”

“Look,” Stephen finishes for him. “I came over to look.” The reiteration somehow forces Tony to rethink his words. Then it clicks. With a soft chuckle, he sits on the rickety, peeling bench next to the sorcerer. Surprisingly enough, Tony’s hands come down to gently rest on Stephen’s, steadying the ever-present tremors.

“You put your hands on the chords, I’ll press them. Okay?” Stephen freezes, shocked at Tony’s one: correct assumption, and two: forwardness. There was no hesitation or awkwardness in his movements, only well-thought-out confidence. He can still feel the way his hands shake against his will, but he nods minutely nonetheless.

“…Alright,” he acquiesces, unsure of how he should feel with Tony’s hands once again surrounding his. Still, he deliberately places his hands on the keys and, next thing he knows, his fingers are being pressed down to create a sweet, bright chord that drowns out the sound of the city around them. Albeit it’s slightly out of tune, it rings true between them as they let the vibrato fade.

“Good?” Tony checks in a hushed, attentive tone. Their hands don't move from the keys, as if molded in place by the played chord. Stephen can't muster the courage to shatter the moment with reality, held under the spell of Tony’s eyes that he's suddenly powerless against. He can't pinpoint how or when they started to have that effect on him, but he's in too deep now to figure it out.

“Good,” he settles on instead. Tony returns the smile that Stephen didn't even realize he was offering, and is the first one to move again. The sorcerer isn't far behind, mentally swiping away the fog that managed to overtake his mind.

“I guess it’s time for my regularly scheduled torture.” They fall back into the crowd, and with it returns Tony’s witticism and nonchalance. “How’re we going to do this?” The scoff from Stephen doesn't bode well, but the doctor explains regardless.

“We’ll go down the stairs, swipe our cards when we get to the turnstiles, and then ride the subway until our stops.” Stephen lets the information sink in, giving Tony the benefit of the doubt, before the other man nods a few times.

“Sounds simple enough.”

And yet, it was anything other than simple.

Turns out, Tony has never been through a turnstile. For a main source of technological advancement, it takes him more times than he's willing to admit to get through the revolving, metal bars. He doesn't hold the card down long enough, then misses his window to get through the bars, overcharges his card, holds up the queue of angry New Yorkers. Meanwhile, Stephen stands on the other side, an unimpressed expression weighing down his face, and tries not to look like he's waiting for that guy.

All in all, it could have gone better.

Which is why, when Tony gets on the subway for the first time and doesn't hold onto any of the bright yellow railing, Stephen doesn't say a word. He merely braces himself without showing it and prepares for the familiar acceleration.

“So, what? We stand on a crowded train that probably hasn't had a safety check in years and wait ‘til it’s our turn to get off?” Tony questions, shoving his hands into his pockets. The sliding doors close with a high-pitched screech and Stephen can't help his smugness.

“Something like that.” Then, the subway lurches forward, instantly forcing Tony to stagger to try to keep balance and ultimately failing. Stephen doesn't even have the chance to bask in his achievement before Tony is toppling onto him. Out of pure instinct, he catches Tony as the asshole lands square on his chest. As quickly as the car was jostled, it hits a constant speed that leaves them feeling like they're hardly moving at all. When they're finally stable, Stephen glares down at his backfired plan.

“I think I've fallen for you, Doc.” Tony flutters his eyelashes for effect and the smirk never leaves his lips. As if it couldn't get any worse.

“Peter’s pickup lines were better,” Stephen fires back monotonously. However, not one for adhering to self-preservation in any sense of the word, Tony digs his grave deeper.

“Is this all I had to do to get in your arms?”

Stephen drops him.

Tony yelps and lands on the floor in a heap, a few passengers’ eyes landing on him before turning their attention back to their phones. Victoriously smiling down at him, Stephen can't help but snicker.

“Okay, alright, I should've seen that coming,” Tony admits as he pulls himself up. Dusting his clothes off, he very pointedly grabs the vertical pole this time.

“Revolutionary. Almost like they were put there for a reason,” Stephen’s sarcasm is evident, no matter how innocent he makes his smile out to be. The so-called-genius rolls his eyes, but follows his example nonetheless.

“Touché, but don't get used to it, Glinda.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, Elphaba.”

Holding back laughter at their horrible banter like twelve-year-olds, they ride out the journey with effortless chatter and more-than-occasional quips until their destination arrives. They walk the rest of the way back to Bleecker Street and, for some reason, Stephen starts to recognise that he doesn't want it to end. Despite himself, he remains stoic.

“Your castle, m’lady,” Tony announces accompanied by a deep bow.

“Is this where I call you my ‘knight in shining armor?’” Stephen fires back, but stays rooted in place just outside the doorway. With a faux hum of contemplation, Tony considers his options.

“No,” he surprises Stephen, causing the other to raise an eyebrow. “This is where you say yes to the gala.” Oh. Right. The gala. That seemed to have slipped Stephen’s mind.

“Is it?” Stephen intones, unconvinced as his eyebrow carefully lowers back into place.

“I hope so.” It’s rare that Tony lets a sliver of self-doubt slither through, but it feels like it’s been showing more lately. At least, it is in front of Stephen. He isn't sure how to feel about that. Either way, he feels like he's been exposed to a startlingly human side of Tony that he hadn't seen before. Avengers meetings and battlefields on other dimensions certainly aren't the best conditions for getting to know each other or finding a partner, but what they have, what they're starting to allow, he can't ignore. With a defeated sigh, he nods.

“I’ll go.” The way that Tony brightens at a simple two words is unfathomable, and it lets any small semblance of apprehension in Stephen’s mind ebb away.

“Fantastic,” Tony breathes out, almost as if he's surprised. Blown away, even. If Stephen were being honest with himself, he isn't too far behind. “Great, uh, I’ll pick you up? Seven-ish?” Taking a step inside the Sanctum, Stephen gives a curt nod.

“Seven-ish,” he concurs as Tony all but skips off the steps. Then, he shocks even himself. “Tony.” Tony spins on his heel to face him, looking just as taken aback as Stephen feels. “I…It was enjoyable. I had a nice time.” The admission leaves Stephen wanting to run inside like a fourteen-year-old girl running away from her phone after texting her crush for the first time. And the analogy his brain comes up with makes him want to scream. Tony, however, takes it in stride with another warm, glowing smile.

“Me too,” he returns, holding the eye contact for just a moment longer, then continues down the steps. Stephen doesn't waste another second before shutting the door and letting out a long awaited breath. He slides down the wooden door with his head in his hands, wondering what the fuck he just got himself into.

The days following the date are mediocre, to say the least. After feeling so alive for a mere few hours, it’s jarring to be thrust back into the void of the Sanctum. Sure, he has the Cloak and occasionally Wong to keep him company, but the universe isn't at risk of implosion every other Tuesday. The only thing that helps keep him content is the casual, unforced texting between him and Tony. It’s filled with banter, lighthearted annoyance, and genuinity that he isn't sure how he ever lived without.

Before he knows it, it’s Wednesday and he's starting to wonder if he thought this through enough. He's going on…a second date? With Tony Stark, which is even more shocking. And he agreed to it, willingly went along with it. Now he's dressed in a far-too-expensive, maroon suit, waiting for said man to arrive. This isn't how he saw his week going, yet he can't find it in himself to target it. He's happy. And that's enough.

“Knock knock!” an annoying, barely audible voice from the other end of the opening Sanctum door. Tony Stark, in all his mustered glory, walks in with his hands clasped behind his back. The purple satin of his suit reflects the light filtering through the giant, circular window emulating the Eye of Agamotto. The violet waistcoat compliments his dark plum tie, and, by the way he walks, he sure is confident in his attire.

“Saying ‘knock knock’ doesn't actually count as knocking,” Stephen chastises, but has no true ill will behind the words.

“Technicalities,” Tony brushes off. He strolls up to the sorcerer, circling him much like Sunday when this all started. This time, however, Tony affectionately smiles up at him. “You look nice.” The startling display of honesty stuns Stephen into inaction for a split second. A light dusting of pink blooms across his cheeks against his will, but he doesn’t shy away.

“You too,” he returns, wishing he was able to properly articulate the warmth spreading through his chest.

“Hope you don’t mind that we’re taking a car this time. I liked our walk but thought you probably wouldn’t want to walk across Manhattan in the rain.” Tony informs as they walk towards the entrance, Stephen shrugging on a coat as they go.

“Incredible,” Stephen says in awe, causing Tony to look over his shoulder in confusion. “He does have common sense.” Tony can’t help but snort and good-naturedly bumps into the taller man’s shoulder.

“I amaze even myself sometimes,” he proudly concurs. Somehow, Tony manages to turn teasing insults into compliments and Stephen still isn’t quite sure how he does it. “Shall we?” The door swings open, revealing the surprisingly covert car that has no chauffeur in sight. Stephen looks over to his…date, and smiles.

“We shall,” he agrees, following Tony and shutting the Sanctum doors behind them.

Once they arrive at the Tower, the main room for the gala has men and women dressed to the nines on the outskirts while a polished, patterned wood in the center serves as the regal dancefloor. Sequin-adorned dresses glint in the warm lights and dull chatter encompasses the room. After Tony kindly places his coat in one of the inconspicuous closets, his date extends his hand.

“Ready to put these guys to shame with our killer dance skills?” he questions with a smirk, looking as determined and competitive as ever. Leave it to him to make something as mundane as dancing a competition. Stephen shouldn't be all that surprised considering they've barely walked through the doors.

“How could I say no?” Stephen holds out his hand and leads them both to the dancing crowd when Tony accepts it. Unfortunately, since it’s technically still a prestigious Stark Industries event, they attempt to keep the dancing somewhat acceptable. Before long, it feels like they're the only ones laughing and genuinely having fun. Stephen finally allows himself to loosen up and, purely out of spite and nothing else, dips and spins Tony when he least expects it. They get a few distasteful looks from a handful of the other guests, but they don't care in the slightest. In order to avoid the seemingly endless spins, Tony tip-toes onto Stephen’s feet. Even with the added height, Tony is barely able to maintain eye contact.

“Sorry to break it to you, but you aren't supposed to step on your dance partner’s feet,” Stephen informs with a slight smile as he sways the both of them back and forth. Tony chuckles under his breath and holds onto Stephen’s shoulders tighter.

“It’s not my fault you're so tall,” Tony counters as he wobbles minutely on tip toes to prove his point.

“It’s not my fault you're so short,” Stephen shoots back nonchalantly. Despite his bemused attitude, he can't help the endeared huff that follows.

“Without me, you wouldn't look so tall. If anything, you should be thanking me,” Tony proudly quips with a smirk. It’ll be the closest he gets to admitting he’s…vertically challenged.

The song they’re dancing to isn't necessarily slow, but Tony was getting impatient waiting for one. The rest of the guests, who Tony didn't even bother learning the names of, are hanging closer to the tables of food as the two try to keep their laughing to a minimum. Happy is near the balcony doors between two businessmen, the latters having a champagne flute in his hand. Pepper is standing with a small group of investors, each with women attached to their hips. Ever since Tony changed the mission of the company, more and more business investors have wanted to tag on to his relative good luck…if you count almost dying in Afghanistan and losing one of your closest friends as “good luck.” Or it could just be the fact that he’s also Iron Man… Yeah, it’s probably that.

“Stephen,” Tony prompts with his head falling back. Stephen chuckles, shaking his head at the childish action.

“Tony?”

“Can we get food?” He tried, he really did, but the song sucks and the gala sucks and he just wants to go someplace more private.

“I suppose we can end our dance early to get some needlessly high-class food,” Stephen gives in. When did he find himself unable to say no to Tony? Nonetheless, his partner steps off the tips of his shoes and bows overdramatically, which Stephen returns before offering his elbow. “Finger sandwiches?”

“Finger sandwiches,” Tony appreciatively agrees. They walk over to the food tables covered in fancy tablecloths and metallic platters.

“So,” Stephen begins as he picks up one of the uncountable sandwiches on resolving trays, “is it more bearable than you thought?” With a sandwich of his own, Tony hardly takes a second to consider the question.

“With you? Infinitely.” The sorcerer hides the way Tony’s answer flusters him by taking a bite of the food.

“At least the food makes up for your dancing,” he remarks offhandedly with a sly smile. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tony’s mouth go agape, which only causes him to snicker under his breath.

“What about my dancing?” Tony demands, overdramatically raising his eyebrow in mock offense. This time Stephen openly laughs and leans against the buffet table.

“I wasn't going to say anything, but…” He pauses only to further tease Tony, giving the man a sideways glance.

“I swear to all that's holy, if this is another short joke,” Tony chastises with narrowed eyes that hold a twinkle of humor.

“I did have to bend down to dip you,” Stephen continues anyway.

“That's it, I'm disowning your giraffe ass.”

“Can't disown it when you can't reach it.”

“Says the one who has to hide their Loch Ness neck behind a mysterious popped collar.”

“Any shorter and you could've gotten away with a kid’s ticket.”

“And where's your senior ticket, Sideys?”

“At least I don't have to wear six inch heels to reach the bar.”

“Too bad they don't have bingo night.”

“Too bad they don't sell juice boxes.”

The banter is cut off by their uncontrollable laughter that they try to keep as contained as possible, obviously failing miserably. They hunch over slightly, attempting to catch their breath, but get interrupted amidst their childish kerfuffle by Pepper.

“Do I need to separate you two?” she lightheartedly threatens with a champagne flute in her hand, though it looks untouched.

“Sorry, Pep, the petting zoo is closed. The giraffe is a bit cranky,” Tony continues to provoke. Pepper is quick to hit Tony in the chest, not hard but not exactly gentle either.

“Be nice to Stephen, he didn't have to come,” she reprimands with no room for argument. “I need you to go talk to Mark from EnergyLux, he keeps asking about our carbon emissions and says he’ll only discuss the details with you. I'm sure he needs a break from you.” She gestures to Stephen, who smirks at Tony as if he’s won a long-fought battle. Still, Tony rests a gentle hand on Stephen’s back.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, his hand lingering slightly, before he's gone.

“Sorry about that,” Pepper politely apologizes as Stephen watches Tony walk away.

“No need, it’s understandable. It’s a business gala, after all,” he reassures with a shake of his head. For a few beats, they stand off to the side away from the party’s main commotion and share a social breather.

“So, how has it been?” Pepper suddenly asks. It takes a beat for Stephen to register the question and its ambiguity. He feels like he missed a step of the conversation.

“Pardon?”

“The dates with Tony,” she clarifies, and Stephen’s brain just about stalls. Apparently, the shock must appear on his face because Pepper continues. “Come on, I’m not oblivious. You think I could work with him for this long and not notice a change?

“Well, it’s…” How has it been? He hadn't particularly thought about it. For once, he put his feelings first and his mind second. “Good,” he vaguely settles on.

“That's it? ‘Good’? Stephen, I don't know if I've ever seen him this happy. He hasn't pulled an all-nighter all week, he's been humming while he works, I didn't think it would go this well.” Something about her wording seems to elude a deeper knowledge, but for now he chooses to push it to the back of his mind.

“Thank you,” Stephen says genuinely, an elegant smile gracing his lips. “That means a lot coming from you.”

“He's your pain in the ass now,” she says in a good-natured taunt.“How was the park, by the way?” So much for pushing it to the back of his mind.

“The park?” he inquires carefully.

“Yeah, it took me ages to find a park he agreed on.” …Agreed on? “It was either ‘this park has too many people’ or ‘that park is too far.’ Then I narrowed it down to Union Park. It wasn’t too far from Fiacco’s, either. I recommended their fresh mozzarella.”

Oh.

Stephen schools his expression carefully as he realizes it wasn't Tony who planned out the…date. It was planned for him. In a split second, the beat of a heart, the blink of an eye, all those sentimental moments in the park bleed into staged necessities.

“Yes, it was,” Stephen swallows, “it was nice.” Suddenly, the term ‘nice’ leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “It was a pleasant way to spend the afternoon,” he tags on to keep up appearances. He doesn't want to make a scene, no matter how disjointed he feels. However, Pepper’s genuine smile never falters. She probably isn't even aware of the bomb she inadvertently dropped on him. It was never a secret to her, but to Stephen it’s shattering what little grasp he has on reality.

“I have to make my way to a few more companies, so I’ll let you enjoy your night. We can talk later, okay?” She places a gentle hand on his shoulder, her blue eyes kind. “Let me know if you need anything.” With that, she walks back into the crowd of barely-decipherable people.

All he does is stand there, unsure how to feel, unsure how to react. That…wasn’t a conversation he was expecting to have. He hadn't prepared for this outcome, or how much it would hurt. It’s unrealistic at the very least, because it hasn't been that long since he and Tony started…going out, for lack of a better word. He usually isn't one for alcohol but god, he needs a drink. 

Before he can take a sip, a tap on his shoulder almost makes him jump, but he manages to keep his gentle grip on the champagne flute. When he turns around, he's a bit relieved to see Tony.

“Care to spare a quick dance for your humble date?” he asks confidently, yet the way he fidgets with his cufflinks says otherwise. Stephen raises a challenging eyebrow and smirks.

“I wouldn't go as far as to say humble,” Stephen can't help but tease despite the strained smile. “How’d you manage to slip away from your trying duties as an ex-CEO?” he asks before taking another bite of his sandwich.

“Oh, y’know, I make time for the select people who matter,” Tony shrugs before being the one who offers his hand this time. Stephen holds back a bitter scoff. So now I matter, huh?

“Glad I made the cut.” Disregarding his better judgement, he takes Tony’s proffered hand and, just as they step onto the dancefloor, the violins begin a slow-paced song. Tony takes Stephen’s left hand in his right as Stephen’s free hand settles on the other’s shoulder. Unable to keep his mind off what Pepper said, Stephen tries to steer the conversation as far away from the topic as possible. “So, you've got grovelers now?”

“Hm?” Tony hums in confusion. “Oh, the businessmen? I suppose. I wasn't really paying attention,” he explains halfheartedly. “Your suit’s still stainless, huh? No mini sandwich tragedies while I was gone?” With a quirked eyebrow, he glances down to his maroon suit to double check Tony isn't hinting at anything.

“No,” Stephen responds curtly. Probably too much so, but he can't find it in himself to elaborate. They dance for a few minutes in silence, the passion from earlier gone, as he tries to casually avoid eye contact. It took me ages to find a park he agreed on. Pepper’s voice still rings loudly in his head. I narrowed it down to Union Park. I recommended their fresh mozzarella. Did Tony do any of it?

“Doc? Stephen?” Tony’s gentle voice snaps him from his haunted thoughts.

“Sorry, I didn't hear you.” he drags his eyes from the hardwood floor to meet Tony’s.

“It's nothing, just…everything okay?” Tony cautiously prods, his eyebrows pulled together in concern.

“Yeah, of course,” Stephen assures with a well-practiced smile. Fake. “Just slightly overwhelmed. There's more people than I thought there would be. As if you didn't need another reason to stand out in a crowd,” he jabs innocently.

“What can I say? The world just can't help but revolve around me,” Tony plays along confidently. Stephen rolls his eyes, but can't think of a clever retort. He's barely teetering on the edge of being both mentally and emotionally exhausted. More than anything in the world, he wants nothing more than to lay his head on Tony’s shoulder and pretend nothing’s wrong. But he knows better than to let himself be hurt more than he already has. Regardless of his inner turmoil, Tony slowly pulls Stephen close to his chest. “Something's bothering you. I'm a genius, remember? Can't slip anything past me.” Stephen breathes in the familiar smell of his hair gel and cologne, allowing himself just that brief respite to enjoy it as he grips his date back.

“It's nothing.” Nonetheless, he decides to leave it at that. There's no point in bringing it up. It’s over after tonight, anyways. The song slowly fades out and, before the next one starts, he speaks up. “I'm going to step outside for some fresh air. You should find Pepper, she’s been doing a lot tonight.” He inconspicuously nods towards Pepper, who’s talking to more potential business partners.

“Stephen-” Tony goes to argue, but Stephen squeezes his hand and walks into the dancing crowd. There's no escape, since the stairs and elevator are both in the same direction as Tony, only momentary reprieve. Fortunately, the large expanse of the balcony is empty.

The cool night air is refreshing on his flushed, prickling skin. From the height, he can see uncountable city lights twinkling and the echoing sounds of life below them. An uneasy peace washes over him, but it doesn’t last long.

“Hey, what’s going on?” The voice pollutes the silence, and Stephen shuts his eyes out of instinct. “Stephen?” With a sigh, he opens his eyes, but doesn’t turn his head to face Tony.

“What were you trying to do?” There’s a brief silence that he can only assume Tony is taking to interpret the question.

“Uh…come get you?” Tony answers unsurely. “I have to make a shitty speech and I’d rather look at you while doing it than those-“

“No more jokes.” Stephen’s notice comes out nothing short of purely exasperated. It’s a tone the other hasn’t heard in the better part of a week.

“I'm not joking.” When Tony doesn't receive a response, he huffs and walks closer to the back facing him. “Would you just tell me what's wrong?” At those words, Stephen whips around to face the source of his turmoil and doubt and heartbreak, whether he's ready to admit it or not.

“Why did you ask me to do this, Stark? Was it a power play? A game? An experiment? Why didn't you ask anyone else?” Tony looks taken aback, as if he didn't expect that to be in question.

“Because I didn't wanna go with them, I wanted to go with you.” He says it as if it’s meant to be common knowledge, but Stephen doesn't appear to be buying it.

“No. No. You don't get to say that and then not plan it!” Stephen’s voice suddenly gets louder, and if Tony didn't look shocked before he does now. But Stephen can't find it in himself to care at this point. Tony looks confused, then realization dawns on him.

“Stephen-“

“Doctor. Strange. ” Stephen’s correction makes Tony stall, his entire body tensing. The taken aback pain in his eyes is almost enough to make Stephen regret his words. Almost. “People’s lives aren't an investment. This isn’t something you can buy your way out of.”

“Don't put words in my mouth, Ste-” Tony cuts himself short this time, just barely remembering Stephen’s correction. He hates how much of a comfortable habit it’s become to call Stephen by his first name. He took it too much for granted. “I know I suck at this kind of shit-”

“This isn't shit! This is my-” He takes a stabilizing breath. “How dare you make me feel- feel human.”

“You are human,” Tony urges with pleading eyes. “You have to believe me. I would never use you like that. Not after everything. Please, just, that's not what this was. I asked Pep for help ‘cause I wanted to make sure you’d be here tonight.” The guarded, standoffish posture Stephen maintains contradicts his next words.

“Ah, I see. That clears everything up then.” Tony lets out a relieved sigh.

“Thank y-”

“You manipulated and plotted until you got what you wanted,” Stephen’s cold words break down what little hope Tony had built back up, but serve to protect Stephen further.

“For fuck’s sake,” Tony mutters as he rakes both hands through his hair, looking more frantic than Stephen has ever seen him. Stephen’s hands tighten around the lapels of his jacket, subconsciously rubbing them between each thumb and forefinger. It’s force of habit even when the Cloak isn't there to return the comfort, but grounds him enough to be able to speak again.

“I hope it was worth it, Stark.” His tone holds such finality that Tony’s heart speeds up.

“Okay, I phrased that badly,” Tony admits, his fidgeting hand barely out of sight. “Just let me fix this.” As he takes a step forward to get that chance before he completely loses it, loses Stephen, the sorcerer takes a step back in tandem.

“There's some things even a genius can't fix,” he condemns. He can't do this anymore. Even if they were able to salvage something, he would always wonder if what he was seeing or experiencing was real. He can't live like that. “I've been neglecting my duties as Sorcerer Supreme. After this, we’re done. No- no more walks or coffees or damned pianos. Nothing.” His voice quivers ever slightly at the end, but enough for Tony to notice it. Neither of them want this. Not really.

“Please-” But Tony’s cut off by Happy opening the balcony door.

“Two minutes until your speech, Boss,” he informs, then seems to realize both the pressure in the air and their postures. There's unbreaking eye contact between the two, until Tony speaks.

“It can wait.”

“Go,” Stephen retorts instead. “You have a prior commitment.” It’s not said with distaste or anger. If anything, it’s…detached. Empty. Lifeless. He’s detaching his words from his emotions and they both know it. Surprisingly though, Tony’s jaw tightens before he walks back. Happy steps out of the way to let him by, but hesitates at the doorway as he watches Stephen remain unmoving. Still, he decides to leave their rapidly deteriorating relationship to them.

The second the glass door clicks shut, Stephen’s tense shoulders release some of their tension. If he doesn't actually get to work things out with Tony, he might as well just sue him at this rate. For what? Well, he can always get creative. With a ladened sigh, he regrettably comes to terms with the fact that the only way out is to go back through the crowd and to the elevators. Either that, or he toughs out the rest of the night…

Mind made up, he walks through the glass door and back inside. As he makes his way around the crowd gathered around the elevated floor, it’s easy to spot Tony with a slightly more forced smile than normal.

“Thank you for providing your expertise and time by coming tonight,” Tony starts, almost sounding like he’s said the exact same speech dozens of times before. Bored, stuck in a script, void of the spark he saw that day in the park. It isn't the Tony he knows. The Tony he's…come to adore. Admire. It just feels wrong to see him like a puppet with his strings cut. “With all of your help, I have no doubt that-”

A thunderous, ear-piercing sound rings out, causing Stephen to jump practically out of his skin. He stares in disbelief as Tony stops abruptly.

No.

There's a high-pitched scream as Tony falls.

“Get the perimeter secure!” Happy, closest to Tony, yells before the other guards pull out their guns.

“Tony?! Tony!” Stephen screams at the top of his lungs, rushing the stage at full speed only to be held back by the guards. “Let me through!” he desperately yells at the guards as he attempts to claw past them. Then, he says something that surprises even himself. “I'm a doctor! Let me fucking through!” Before the guards can debate, he pushes himself through them and sprints up the stage.

“Oh god, Tony. Oh my god,” Pepper gasps as she attempts to put pressure on the gunshot wound. Stephen kneels between the two and pushes as much of his panic and emotions away as he can.

“Hey, it’s Stephen. I'm here to help, okay?” he assures softly, brushing Tony’s hair away from his rapidly paling face. For a brief moment, panicked brown eyes meet calm blue ones. Stephen’s gaze then shifts the crimson soaking not only the purple suit, but now Pepper’s blazer as well. “Put more pressure on that, alright? Harder,” he tells Pepper before turning his attention back to Tony. “Can you tell me your name?” Tony attempts to scoff, but it comes out as more of a wheeze.

“You know who I am,” he says smugly, trying and failing to cover up a wince. Of course Stephen does, but he needs to make sure his airway and mind are clear.

“I know you're going to bleed out if you don't stop moving and relax. Still have an ego?” Stephen fires back with a hint of humor to cover his panic. His shaking hands check Tony’s breathing and radial pulse.

“Tony Stark,” his date cooperates with an answer.

“Can you tell me where you are?”

“Stark Industries.” Good, he's alert and aware. He gently presses his forearm against Tony’s rapidly paling face. His skin is pale, cool, and diaphoretic. Dammit, he could be going into shock.

“Do you have another jacket or something we can cover him with?” he questions Pepper without looking away from Tony.

“Happy!” she calls towards the crowd, but Happy is preoccupied with ushering people out of the room and away from the windows. Stephen curses under his breath and pulls his hand away from Tony’s pulsepoint to rip his own jacket off instead. He gingerly places it over Tony, the tremors in his hands worsening as his hands hesitate on the light of the arc reactor. Some of the blood seeps into Stephen’s dress shirt, a harsh contrast to the pure white fabric.

“It's gonna be okay,” Stephen reassures as his fingers return to Tony’s wrist. He smiles down at the genius, swallowing hard, and holds Tony’s free hand in his own. Of course, Tony decidedly chimes in.

“Everything's fine, Doc. Just a flesh wound. I've been through a lot worse,” Tony reassures him. Stephen’s eyes can't help but drift towards his arc reactor.

“No, no Tony, this is not okay,” he harshly counters through clenched teeth, but the malice isn't there. Any anger at Tony is absent. His chin trembles, but he presses his lips together and slowly breathes through his nose. Pepper’s tears stream down her cheeks, dripping down and landing in the seemingly endless blood.

“Medbay is on its way up,” Happy informs from the side, trying to keep his composure as much as the rest of them.

“Just keep the pressure,” Stephen orders, even as his voice cracks. He feels Tony’s pulse weaken and become thready and he just can't handle that right now. He can't. He left that feeling behind in the ER, the feeling of not only losing a patient but losing a friend. Someone he fucking cares about.

Tony needs oxygen and gauze and shock blankets and tranexamic acid to stop the bleeding and he has nothing.

Tony’s pulse slows even more.

He's going to crash.

“Happy! Come take over for Pepper!” Stephen barks out the order harsher than intended. He needs to distract Tony and keep him warm and talking and alive. Happy instantaneously switches places now that everyone’s out and firmly puts his hands where Pepper’s were. Her hands are bright red. Artery. “Hey, Tony? You like Pepper, right?”

“Mhm, but love you,” Tony answers with a slight smile as blood slides past his lips.

Stephen’s breathing practically stops.

He asked that to get Tony’s mind off what’s happening, but that wasn't the answer he expected. He didn't expect…

“Why?” he echoes the first question he asked Tony when he was approached about the gala. If Stephen can just keep him talking until the medical team gets here…but he genuinely doesn't understand either. And he needs to know.

“Your eyes, even, even when you glare at me. Especially when you smile. God, your smile. Your, your real smile. You need to do it more often,” Tony says fondly. Stephen lets out a breathless laugh as tears he didn't even notice drip off the tip of his nose. “Could light up the whole damn room with that smile. I've seen it. Sure as hell lights up my life with it.” He chuckles, splattering the floor with more blood.

“Tony, you can't- just don't-” Stephen’s throat constricts uselessly as a sob forces its way out. He's not used to being loved and this isn't how he wanted it to happen.

“I love you,” Tony repeats, more adamantly this time. Stephen forces himself to maintain eye contact because he knows how important this is, but it doesn't make the pain in his chest subside. In actuality, it makes the ache worsen. This wasn't supposed to be how the evening went. It’s a gala for fuck’s sake, no one was supposed to get hurt, least of all Tony. No matter how mad he was at the genius.

Stephen doesn't get the chance to respond.

The elevator doors ding open to let the Medbay team race through in a chaotic outbreak of carefully organized chaos. Orders are being called and countdowns shouted as Stephen is pushed out of the way and Tony is lifted onto the lowered gurney. All Stephen can think about is the possibility that he might not see Tony again. He shuts down that pessimistic line of thought, but not before a string of doubt and regret seeps its way through.

You didn't say it back.

“Stephen?” Pepper’s voice makes him look up from his bloodied hands that he didn't realize he was staring at. The blood catches the light with every tremor that forces its way through his muscles, uncontrollable and taunting. He won't even be the one operating on Tony, helping, and it shatters his resolve. Slowly, he wipes his hands on his dirtied dress shirt.

“I'm- Can we go to the, uh, Medbay?” he requests with a voice that almost sounds lost. Too much has changed in such a short amount of time that his mind is still playing catch-up. Pepper’s eyes, hardened from compartmentalization and red-rimmed, soften.

“We can,” she confirms by starting towards the same elevator. With shaking steps and unreliable legs, Stephen barely processes as he follows her. Once they step inside and the doors close, Pepper speaks up again. “Are you hurt?” Stephen’s muscles lock up at the prospect of talking about himself. This isn't about him, but he mentally checks himself regardless.

“No,” he determines aloud. If he has a scrape here and there from the glass of the shattered windows, he doesn't notice. “You?” In return, Pepper shakes her head.

“Nothing more therapy can't fix.” She means for it to come out lightheartedly, but they both know she isn't too far off from the truth. When Stephen opts to stare at the descending floors blinking at them instead of responding, she continues. “He’s in some of the best hands in the world, trust me. He's been through a lot worse than this. He’ll be fine.” It doesn't take a genius for Stephen to realize she's trying to convince both of them of it.

“He’s too much of a stubborn douchebag to let himself die like this,” Stephen concurs, sniffing. “Not enough cameras.” Despite his words, his voice cracks as a tear rolls down his cheek. He's quick to brush away the visible sign of anguish like it was never there to begin with. And Pepper is kind, or merciful, enough not to mention it. Instead, she gently brushes his shoulder with her own before the doors open to the blinding, white walls of the Medbay floor. Hesitantly, he follows her down the echoing halls.

Ever since the accident, hospitals in any form have brought him more discomfort than he'd like to admit.

Tony said facing his fears would help.

He thinks Tony is full of shit.

With the way his heart only beats faster, he doesn't know how long he’ll be able to last. Being both a neurosurgeon as well as the Sorcerer Supreme, yet still not being able to do anything, is the biggest slap in the face possible. To know so much but be forced to quite literally sit on the sidelines…it’s hell.

He's too pent up to possibly sit down and opts to pace back and forth, his dress shoes clacking against the linoleum floor while Pepper in contrast sits. Neither speak, but waiting is agony nonetheless.

After thirty minutes of pacing turns into an hour of sitting on the warmth-leeching ground, Dr. Cho walks up to them.

“We’re lucky it happened at the Tower,” she divulges, tone clipped. That's how Stephen knows it was bad. Was. Yet, it gives him hope.

“He's okay?” Stephen chokes out, his voice strained and aching. The doctor nods and Pepper lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been held for the last hour. She covers her face with both hands to keep composure as Stephen runs his through his hair.

“Thank you so much,” Pepper is able to say calmly, which is more than Stephen was able to do. Finally, finally, he allows himself to sit in one of the chairs, his head bowed in his hands.

“We’ve put him in the cradle, he should be well enough in a few hours to go up and rest,” Dr. Cho relays and spares a smile to them both. They weren't the only ones concerned. The mere thought that they almost lost Tony and now he’ll be walking in a few hours is almost too much relief for Stephen to handle all at once. His taut shoulder sag and he shakily breathes out.

The hard plastic of the chair unforgivingly digs into his back, as uncomfortable as any typical waiting room chair. He clenches his fists in his lap and feels both his heart rate and breathing begin to race. Flashes of heat make their way across his body as he squeezes his eyes shut. Shit. He can handle this. He's done it before, and he can do it again. Knots try to force their way into his stomach and it feels as if he's falling from a skyscraper. The suspense is unbearable. He knows he won't be able to avoid the inevitable, abrupt impact of the unforgivable ground. His breathing becomes painful and shallow to the point where he's almost fighting for it. The ground feels unstable and unreliable and he just wants to see Tony.

He can't, he has to wait, but he sure as hell isn't going to wait here.

Stephen’s heart beats out of his chest as he tries to walk as nonchalantly as possible out of the Medbay and to the elevator. As soon as the doors close around him, he presses his lips together and takes deep breaths through his nose in hopes it’ll keep his emotions in check. Whether he likes it or not, the tears still run down his cheeks and drip onto the metallic floor. He's fine. He’ll be fine. Everything’s okay. Keep it together.

He runs his hands through his graying hair and tries to calm himself down, “try” being the operative word. Emotions have always been his weakness. His drawback. The same thing happened with the Avengers and he had to remind himself that it was just business. A job meant to bring heroes together to prevent global and sometimes universal catastrophes, not make friends or form bonds. Because that’s what it always is, isn't it? Come together when the villains are rampaging, then leave as if more trauma hasn't been added to the ever-expanding list. There's nothing else to stay for once the bad guys are caught. No one else. 

It’s too late at night for an existential crisis, he reprimands himself like he's never had a breakdown past midnight.

With a sickening, roller coaster feeling in his stomach, the elevator doors open and the scene before him only makes his heart clench tighter.

The lights from earlier are shut off, no longer encasing the room in rays of warm gold tones. Instead, the moon serves to cast the only light and glints violently over the smeared blood across the hardwood floor. He tears his eyes away from the sight and instead walks to the piano.

His scarred, tremor-ridden hands lightly ghost along the pale keys highlighted by the moonlight. Dulled sounds from the city below seep in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse. It’s empty and dim, but he can still hear the ghost of the gala’s roaring commotion, muddied only by the terrified screams and thunderous gunshot. His fingers hover above the chord Tony helped him play with a small smile and patience he didn't know the genius was even capable of.

Was…was that fake too?

He breathes out as shakily he presses down, but the control isn't there without Tony’s hands holding his steady. The notes waver and come out as fragile as his shattered trust.

A horrid, dissonant sound envelops the space as he slams on the keys in frustration. His groan in frustration bleeds into a yell that agonizingly fills the empty space more than the melancholic notes ever could. He rests his elbows on the keys and holds his head in his hands, tightly gripping his hair as he shakily breathes out.

All a lie. All a fucking lie. This is what he gets for actually being genuine for once and trusting instead of hiding behind his title.

His title. Always hiding behind one title or another. Egotistical neurosurgeon shielded with a perfect record, because he’s too afraid to risk losing someone again. Stoic Sorcerer Supreme busying himself with protecting reality, so he can’t make the mistake of getting close to people again. Like this. And it’s always an excuse.

But the worst part of it all was that he had been…happy. Content. For the first time in years. And damn him if he just can't come to grips with it all being fake. Not after all the times he actually had fun, felt what it was like to be loved for the first time in years. His hands shake even harder and he releases the harsh grip on his hair, distantly noticing the tears that have dampened his cheeks. He has no idea how long he's been sat at the piano, but he distantly notices the sky lightening to a dull gray.

With a sniff, he lowers his fingers a second time with uncertainty, closing his eyes. If he can just focus he can-

Warm, steady hands are softly placed over his and Stephen tenses. And he knows whose they are. He so desperately wants to push them away, to yell and to scream about how hurt he is, but with the way Tony’s hands steady his and keep the cold away, he can't help but let him gently press the keys down. The mellow chord deeply rings out, the notes played together to make a rich, true tone. It resonates through and around them, slowly fading into an echo that reaches the far corners of the room.

His breathing slows gradually, causing his heart rate to lower in tandem. Breathing isn't such an overwhelming task and he can finally feel his hands relax as much as they're able. This time, he doesn't collide with the cacophonous ground, but stops midair. His breath is still shaky but it feels controllable. Bearable. He's able to relax his muscles and they feel just as exhausted as his mind. The relief is welcoming as air fills his lungs unhindered and the heat leaves his body with each breath.

There's a beat of silence once the chord fades, but it doesn't last long.

“I'm still mad at you,” Stephen fills the silence with a hard, emotionless voice. He feels the exhale of air against the back of his neck as Tony chuckles out a self-deprecating breath.

“I know,” the man responds softly. “I'm mad at me, too.” They lapse into silence, neither of them quite having the courage or knowing where to start. There are too many avenues they could possibly take, too many issues to address. Before the conversation can go in a direction he isn't ready for, Stephen bites the bullet.

“How are you feeling?” he rasps out as an immeasurable amount of emotions war within him. Tony doesn't lift his hands, and Stephen doesn't ask him to. Instead, thumbs lightly caress his scars.

“Four stitches, antibiotics, pain meds, and a slap on the wrist from Pep,” Tony divulges, and Stephen can hear the slight smile in his voice. A chin rests itself on Stephen’s shoulder.

“She did worse than that,” Stephen lightly jabs, voice still hoarse.

“Yeah, she did,” the genius agrees without a fight, but a tad of amusement. Not because of the circumstances, but because Stephen knows him too well. The sorcerer, against his better judgement, allows himself to lean some of his weight against the warmth of Tony’s uninjured side. “I had Pepper plan it,” Tony says against his shoulder and Stephen can't help the way his body tenses. “She's better at being considerate and sentimental and I…I didn't want to mess things up. That doesn't mean I didn't care. That I don't still care.” Stephen knows that, god does he know that. He's spent the last who-knows-how-long replaying Tony’s words from earlier over and over again.

“I don't get-” Stephen tries to articulate how he's feeling, but cuts himself short. He isn't mad, not anymore, yet the deep-seated hurt is still settled like lead in his gut. “It feels staged. Disingenuous. If it was put together for efficiency by someone else, then what was the point?” Something intimate like that shouldn't be an act, and even if he wasn't convinced at the time that it was well-intentioned, he still let himself be vulnerable. Slowly, Tony pulls both their hands from the keys and intertwines their fingers together.

“I can promise you that I never once faked how I felt about you.” He stares into Stephen’s eyes and doesn't dare to look away. “I asked Wong what your favorite sandwich is ‘cause I wanted you to enjoy it. Peter and I talked about which bodega to take you to and Pepper picked the best route, but it all came from me. Hell, I even asked Fri what the top date spots near Bleecker Street are.” The softest of laughs leaves Stephen’s lips, yet it’s enough to make the corner of Tony’s mouth quirk up. “My point is,” he continues, “I had help because I wanted it to be perfect for you, not because I wanted to pawn it off to someone else. I was thinking of you. What you would like, what would make you happy, what would be fun. Everything came from me, but I didn't want to fuck it up and I didn't trust myself to do it alone. So I asked the people who know you the best and the people closest to me to help.” Stephen ever-so-slightly sighs, hardly enough for Tony to hear it despite their close proximity. He supposes he isn't the only one owed an explanation.

“I wanted to see the worst in you,” he starts, clearing his throat. “I picked out traits and jumped to conclusions. I'm sorry for that. My communication could use…some work.” Even though the mood is heavy, Tony chuckles.

“That makes two of us,” he agrees. “But I wanted you to know that…that I second-guess myself a lot, but I never second-guessed us.” The affectionate, warm tone of Tony’s voice makes Stephen tighten his hold on their hands. He refuses to cry anymore tonight, but the words dampen his eyes nonetheless.

“And what is ‘us’ exactly?” Stephen can't help but ask. He isn't sure what he wants the answer to be, stuck between wanting whatever this is to continue and stopping it before he gets more hurt than he already is. There's no way to properly articulate how he's feeling, so he just decides to feel it.

“Anything you want it to be,” Tony honestly divulges. “If you want to,” he swallows thickly, “end things here, we can. We go back to being Avengers, only seeing each other when the world is falling apart. We save the day, we go home. Or,” he turns to face Stephen fully, “we can work on this. On us. I wanted you here because you're genuine. The most genuine person I've ever met and I'm tired of being around fake corporate assholes who say anything to get what they want. And I meant what I said.” He doesn't have to clarify what he means. The words have been plaguing Stephen’s mind since they were uttered. It’s not as though he didn't believe them, the opposite actually, and he's not sure he's ready to face both his and Tony’s.

“It’s not that simple,” Stephen does his best to articulate. “It’s not a mere yes or no decision. There are other factors and consequences that come into play. We aren't in an ordinary situation.” He's quick to pull one of his hands free to swipe away one of the tears that dared to fall. However, Tony places a careful hand on Stephen’s cheek, brushing away the rest of the tear track.

“No more tears,” Tony whispers with a sad smile before resting his forehead against the sorcerer’s. Stephen scoffs lightly, but closes his eyes anyways.

“Crying is healthy, it’s not my fault you’re emotionally constipated,” he says in a hushed tone back. Tony’s other hand comes up to cup his face and Stephen delicately holds onto his wrist, leaning into the touch further.

“Is that a yes?” the genius inquires. Stephen’s eyelashes flutter open and he looks into the brown eyes highlighted by the moon. Still, he raises an eyebrow.

“Who said I forgave you?” Stephen banters back, not willing to lose any ground he has. He thinks he has an edge over Tony until the man smirks.

“You do,” he says with such confidence that it sounds like written law. “Of course you do. You could never make it without me.” It has an undertone of Tony’s usual, humorous ego that Stephen has become accustomed to and he can't help but narrow his eyes and snort in protest.

“Yes I could,” he counters, scrunching up his nose. With a hum, Tony considers it.

“Maybe…” he then brushes the lingering tears away from Stephen’s lower lashes, “but I could never make it without you.” The room, the world, suddenly feels like it’s much smaller than it once was. Stephen pulls back enough to see Tony’s face, but the hands on his cheeks remain.

“You…you're serious.” he realizes with something akin to awe.

“Dead.” There's no walls left stopping Stephen’s eyes from widening in shock as he realizes he's never seen Tony look so serious. As quickly as they recede, they come crashing back into place.

“You don't know what you're getting into, Tony,” he tries to warn, pulling Tony’s hands down. “You don't realize what it’s like to…to love me. Ask everyone else who did. It simply doesn't work.” It still hurts too much to think about. The friends, the family, the lovers. All he has left is the Sanctum and being Sorcerer Supreme, and it keeps others as well as himself safe. He can't ruin that. But, of course, Tony flips that all on its head.

“I don't need to be taught how to love you. I just do.” The smile on Tony’s face is enough to let the rest of the tension bleed from his body. He slowly leans forward until he's resting his head on Tony’s shoulder. There's no more excuses Stephen can conjure up to convince himself that he doesn't want this.

“I love you, too,” he reciprocates against Tony’s chest in a broken whisper. The weight and flurry of emotions from the last week finally push past the years of barriers he's put up. He grips Tony’s t-shirt, trying not to think about the fact that his earlier suit is ruined, and his tears start to soak into it. Vaguely, he registers the weight of Tony’s head coming to rest on his shoulder too.

For a few, breathtakingly peaceful moments, they breathe together. There's no risk of death looming overhead, no tragedy waiting to befall them, just each other and the promise of a future. And right now, that's all they need.